Betrayal :-(

So as you may recall, last time I was talking about how Seterus had JUST BARELY approved my short sale…literally hours before my house was to be auctioned off as a foreclosure. Whew…. right?


I feel like I keep getting punched in the gut, HARD, and sooner or later the next punch will be the last, and I will give up and die from a broken and bleeding spirit. What happened next took me SO COMPLETELY BY SURPRISE that it literally made me sick to my stomach.

As mentioned last time, the new buyer of my house, a Mexican ball-buster we’ll call Loopy, was riding my ass: “When are you guys gonna be out of the house?!” The sale closed on Monday, Feb. 13th at 4:47pm; she wanted me and my roommates out by 4:48pm that same day. If we didn’t get out, she was going to charge us $50 a day in rent.


Have a heart, you fucking bitch. I lost everything in this deal — and you basically bought my everything for $112,000. How do you think that made me feel? Now you’re trying to charge me rent in my own (ex)house?! 

Still, I understood her point of view — she won, fair and square, and I needed to get out. As mentioned, I had a new place lined up, and I had been moving stuff here and there since January. I didn’t want to move anything vital, though, because I had no idea how long this short sale was gonna drag on, and I didn’t wanna have half my shit across town — you know? Also, I wasn’t even sure the sale would go through — there was a very real possibility that it would end up going to auction, in which case I’d have 30 days to get out. So, most of my stuff was still at the old house.

Meanwhile, the situation at my old house was getting awkward. I had two roommates, about whom I haven’t spoken much, so let me fill you in. The girl, a 40-ish woman I knew from the local Burning Man scene, had moved into my basement about a year ago. Prior to that, I had been renting the basement to a toothless hillbilly and his one-legged girlfriend (seriously; that’s a whole blog entry of its own, which I must get to ASAP because it’s fucking priceless).

When the hillbilly and his one-legged girlfriend moved out, I cleaned it out and repainted it and this chick, we’ll call her Susie, moved in. It worked out GREAT — she worked all day from 8am-5pm at an office job, and I usually work from 5-11pm, so we were never in each other’s way. She was a very neat and clean person, and decorated the basement really, really nicely — she has great taste in decor. She sort of turned it into this little bohemian hideaway, and was constantly telling me how much she loved living there.

We were never really chummy, because there was always this sort of weird disconnect between us. But we got along fine, and she was a GREAT roommate.

She had been living with this older Persian guy whom we’ll call Mo, but their relationship was kinda rocky so she moved out of his apartment to take my basement. But, wouldn’t ya know it, before long Mo started coming over…and in late summer, they asked if I minded if he moved in.

I didn’t mind at all — Mo was cool, and a very good cook who was constantly whipping up all this amazing Persian food, which he always shared. He also brought over a huge load of firewood for my fire pit, and he made some repairs to my trailer for me after Burning Man…so I considered him good people. They didn’t want to pay me extra rent, but offered to pay “all” the utilites (power, water and internet…I still took care of sewer, trash, yard maintenance and pest control) plus the rent Susie was already paying me.

I’m a puss, so I caved in and said yes. Mo moved in around July or August, and everything was great…until Susie quit her job. She hated it so much she just couldn’t stand it anymore, and Mo was supposedly going to hire her to do the books at his auto body shop…but all I ever saw her do was sleep til noon and drink all my vodka. I swear, I’ve never seen two people drink so much vodka — I’d get a bottle, and it would be gone in two days. They’d always promise to replenish it…but then they’d drink what they’d bought me within another two days! Nuts!

Still, all was well. Mo and Susie sat around drinking, smoking pot and watching TV in between cooking fabulous meals in my gourmet kitchen. I’m a private person, so I mostly stayed in my bedroom — when I was home at all (I’m usually out and about, hustling and working). So they basically had the entire house to themselves, for $500 a month.

All this time, I was working diligently on my loan modification. At the time, Chase was still stringing me along, leading me to believe they WOULD help me if I would just fax this, that and the other every two minutes. But at my mediation hearing in October, they came out and told me they would not be able to write down my principal or offer me any real help. This was when I realized I could not keep the house.

It was a painful and traumatic decision to make, and I wept EVERY DAY for about two weeks straight. It’s tough to admit that all the work you’ve done for the last four years was for nothing, and you are admitting defeat. But I finally decided to short sell…so I went into the kitchen one night and told Mo and Susie that they needn’t pay any more rent; I was short selling.

They were totally supportive: “Honey, we’ve heard you crying…we’re so sorry, we’re here for you. Do what you have to do.” Mo told me, “You’re not just a roommate, you’re our friend — our family.” I felt a lot better after that. They kicked me some money for bills now and then, but from November on I did not charge them rent. I felt that I couldn’t take money from them if I wasn’t paying the mortgage myself; and besides, I had all manner of prospective buyers tramping thru the house for two days, which I felt bad about on their account.

As any reader of this blog knows, it was a long period of limbo. I accepted an offer right away — Loopy (the aforementioned Mexican ball-breaker) came out on top, and I accepted her offer right around Thanksgiving. I told my roommates this, but also warned them that it could drag on for a looooong time. They had already mentioned to me that they were looking into buying their own house, so I figured we were all on the same page.

Meanwhile, I started looking for a new place. I found a cute little house in fabulous downtown Las Vegas that had an ideal roommate setup, and offered Mo and Susie the master bedroom if they wanted it. They declined, saying they were tired of moving, and preferred to stay in the old house “for free” as long as possible. They seemed to think it would be six months or more — Mo in particular is one of those guys who “knows” the law, and he had it in his head that this would drag on for six months. I told him REPEATEDLY that no, it probably wouldn’t drag on that long, because I was already so deep into the foreclosure process that I had to get this short sale thru in 90 days max. But every time I talked to him he was high and/or drunk, so I don’t think he believed me. He kept telling me not to worry so much, everything would be fiiiiiine, “there are laws in this country to protect us.” He also offered me all this super-shady advice on how to stay in the house indefinitely — to which I told him POINT-BLANK that I was NOT interested in dragging this out any longer — I wanted to get it OVER with!

Still, I have a sneaking suspicion he wanted the house to foreclose — either so he could stay there for free longer, or so that one of his Persian investor friends could buy it at auction for cheap, then rent it back to him. My suspicion was confirmed one day when I was sitting at my desk and looked out the window to see Mo and Susie and a well-dressed Realtor-type walking around my yard — supposedly she was a “friend” of theirs who wanted to see the house out of curiosity. I’m not fucking dumb; I know what they were up to. They probably wanted her to see how nice it was so she could bid on it at the auction!

Now it got really awkward. Mo and Susie had always had a rocky relationship, but now they really got into a fight, and one day Susie asked me if I minded her moving her bed up to my guest bedroom — she didn’t want to share the basement with Mo anymore, because he was being a dick, drinking too much and talking shit to her. Of course I said yes, and even helped her move her mattress upstairs. She asked if I still had that bedroom available at my new place, because her and Mo weren’t going to make it as a couple.

Well, I had already found a new roommate at the new place — a nutty beefcake with long blond hair whom I also knew from the local Burning Man community. He’s a very eccentric person, but I’ve known him for years and I like him OK, so I offered him the extra room. So I told Susie that sorry, it was too late for her. But I felt sorry for her, so even thought it was a severe inconvenience, I offered her the guest bedroom at the new house — a tiny room I had planned to use as my closet (I had a HUGE walk-in closet at my old place, and the new place only had shitty little regular-sized closets). I had already assembled all my guest bedroom furniture in there, but I offered to dis-assemble it and clear it out for her — and let her stay there FOR FREE until the end of February, by which time she could have found a better place. I offered her half the garage for her storage, too.

Susie waffled back and forth EVERY SINGLE DAY. The first day: “Oh girl, that would be awesome; thank you so much.” The second day: “Never mind; I’m gonna get my own apartment.” The next day: “Girl, is that room still available? I can’t find an apartment I can afford.” (She’s been unemployed since July or so.) The next day: “Never mind, Mo and I are getting a place.”

ARRRRRGH! All this nonsense while I was trying to move all my OWN stuff! I was patient with her though, because I felt sorry for her — it’s not her fault she’s an addle-brained sad sack co-dependent. There are plenty of chicks out there addicted to loser guys who treat them like shit — glad I’m not one of ’em! I did what I could to help her, even emptying my boxes at the new house and bringing them back for her to use. I even found her an apartment for super-cheap, but she didn’t like it because it didn’t have a washer/dryer in the unit. I’VE GOT NEWS FOR YOU: an unemployed alkie can’t be so choosy!!

So this went on through the first couple weeks of February, and then the sale finally closed on Monday, Feb. 13th. As mentioned, Loopy and her broker were on my ass immediately, trying to get us out. I spoke with my lawyer, and he reminded me that in my sale contract, he had stipulated that we were to have seven days after closing to vacate the premises. So, we had a full week to get out.

I told Mo and Susie about this, but they kept dragging ass. They thought they could work out a deal with Loopy for rent, but she wanted $50/day or $1600/month, which was way more than they wanted to spend (hello; they were spoiled after having the whole place to themselves for $500!!). So then Mo got drunk one night (big fuckin’ surprise; that’s basically all he does), and called Loopy, ranting and raving and rambling incoherently about his “rights.” They were under the impression that they legally had six months to vacate — but that’s with a FORECLOSURE! This was a SHORT SALE! I told him OVER and OVER that, despite his secret backstabbing wishes, the SHORT SALE HAD GONE THRU AND HE HAD TO GET OUT.

He refused.

Now, this man is 60 fucking years old (I think), but he acted like a fucking baby. He basically threatened to squat in the house and ruin the sale! I was freaked out. I worked SO HARD on this sale, and managed to squeak it in under the door…only to be ruined by an alcoholic Persian loser with a pot belly and an overinflated sense of entitlement?! NO WAY.

Keep in mind, they are LOSERS. As mentioned, they mostly lay in bed and watch TV while eating and boozing. They were on my ass about the government’s “Cash For Keys” program, in which the Feds sometimes pay homeowners a fee to get them to move out without damaging the house. I told them if I got any, I’d share it. So, I offered them $500 each.

It wasn’t enough!

I moved out that Monday, and the next night I got a long email from Susie demanding $2,500 from me, or they wouldn’t move. She said I’d been unfair, and hadn’t explained what was going on, and that their “heads were spinning” from the confusion of short sale vs. foreclosure vs. short sale.


Basically, she said it was only fair that I pay them $2500 for the “inconvenience” of having to move in seven days. FIRST OF ALL, I told you two fucking losers BACK IN OCTOBER this was happening. And I told you in November that I had accepted an offer. It’s not my fault your loser fat ass sat around drinking vodka instead of GETTING THE FUCK UP AND LOOKING FOR A NEW PLACE! Look at what the fuck I was doing!! I’VE BEEN BUSTING MY FUCKING ASS NON-STOP since NOVEMBER looking for a new place and moving!!!

Secondly, who the fuck is truly being inconvenienced here?! I lost EVERYTHING after an exhausting four-year battle. You want to talk about inconvenience?!

It was an extremely hurtful email, and it felt like someone had punched me, HARD, right in the stomach. Or heart. These people were supposedly my friends! Remember, Mo had called me “family.” REALLY? The kicked me when I was at my absolute lowest, and gouged my broken body out of EVEN MORE MONEY.

I’ve never cried so hard in my entire life — it was weird! As mentioned, we were never really friends, but I lived with this girl for a year and had been helping her through as best I could. Now, apparently, she was back with Mo, and he had turned her against me.

My lawyer advised that I didn’t legally have to pay them anything, but I was afraid they would trash the house if I didn’t. I was terrified they would do something to fuck up my sale. I had everything riding on this sale — my fucking FREEDOM! If they punched holes in the walls or flooded the rooms, it would come back on me as breach of contract, since I had agreed to leave the house in move-in condition. Not that I really thought they would do that — but then, I never in my wildest dreams imagined they’d extort $2,500 from me, either.

So, I spoke with Loopy’s broker, who was also on my ass demanding that I get them out. She told me to draw up a Notice to Vacate, and have them sign it, agreeing to vacate the premises by Feb. 19th in exchange for $2,500, to be paid upon their leaving the house in move-in condition. I gritted my teeth, drew up a contract, and went over to have them sign it one evening.

I meant to go in completely calm, have them sign it, and leave. But when I saw them standing there in my kitchen (OK, it wasn’t my kitchen anymore, it was Loopy’s…but still), I just broke down. I was crying, asking them why they were doing this to me?! Mo told me to stop yelling at him, and that really set me off. “I LOST EVERYTHING!!!! HOW THE FUCK DO YOU THINK I FEEL ABOUT ALL THIS! I DIDN’T DO THIS ON PURPOSE!!!” Mo refused to sign anything unless I paid them up front — but I insisted that I had to cover my ass somehow, and make sure they left the place in decent shape.

Finally Susie butted in — “Just sign it, Mo — I want her out of here. She’s out of control.”

SAY WHAT?! You want me out of MY OWN FUCKING KITCHEN?! OK, again, it was Loopy’s kitchen now…but still, it was as much mine as it was that fat fucking brainless bitch’s. She threw me out of my own kitchen. Talk about humiliating.

They finally signed, and we agreed to meet at the house at 2pm on the 19th so I could hand the keys to Loopy and pay them their blood money at that time. And I left, and sat in my (ex)driveway….and wept. I just bawled my fucking heart, soul and eyes out. Not only had I lost everything…now I was being stabbed in the back by a couple of pathetic, shady leeches. I finally got in my truck and drove away, to bawl some more at my new place. It was heartbreaking.

I sacked up and went about my life, unpacking at my new place and trying to settle in whilst working and dealing with brokers, lawyers and tax people. Then, on the 19th, I went over to my old place one last time. I had left my curtains up for Mo and Susie’s privacy, and had left them my trash can and welcome mat and stuff so they wouldn’t feel weird — not my fucking concern any more! I got my stuff, gave the keys to Loopy, showed her around the property, and then gave Mo the cash (Susie was too chickenshit to show up). To his credit, Mo tried to give me $500 back, but I insisted he take it, as per the contract we’d signed. I was over it. Any amount of money to get those two sad leeches out of my life forever.

Even Loopy felt bad for me. I went out in the front yard, dug up my statue of St. Joseph (the ritual calls for him to be given a place of honor in my new place, for having facilitated the sale), and drove away.


But, it’s over. I guess I learned a valuable lesson:

Never. Trust. Anyone.

Especially not a 40-year old alkie with furry boots and a hula hoop!





Out On My Ass :-(

Update! Seterus approved my short sale…sort of.

When I finally realized I COULD NOT ever hope to afford to keep my house, I decided to short sell it, as opposed to just letting the bank foreclose on it. Short selling is MUCH more work than just “walking away” (foreclosing), but I decided to do it for one reason:

If I let the bank foreclose, they could potentially sue me for the money I owe them…and they would have six months to do so. I didn’t feel like sitting around waiting for six months! But if I short sold the property, I could stipulate that the bank waive my deficiency (i.e. forgive the rest of the money I owe them…remember, I “bought” the house for $380,000) as part of the sale. They would basically be agreeing to take whatever I got for the short sale ($112,000) in exchange for letting me off the hook.

Since ALL I WANT is to be free, I thought this was the best course.

But, since I farted around so long (waiting to see if the bank would modify my loan to the point where I could stay in the house)…I ran out of time. By the time they told me they couldn’t modify my loan, it was almost too late for me to short sell. My lawyer advised me that he could TRY to get my short sale through in time, but he couldn’t guarantee it…because I was already so deep into the foreclosure process. So when I hired him, it was with the understanding that he MIGHT VERY WELL FAIL.

To his credit, he prevailed. Even though it’s TOTALLY DOWN TO THE WIRE, and my house is set to be auctioned on the 15th, somehow my lawyer and his assistant managed to sweet-talk the guy at Seterus (the people who bought my loan from Chase) and get the damn short sale approved in time!

BUT, it’s not a perfect happy ending. The short sale approval letter from Seterus makes no mention of them waiving my deficiency!! The SALE CONTRACT states this clearly as a contingency, but the actual approval letter makes no mention of it. So my lawyer advised me that I have two options:

1) cancel the short sale and request a re-written approval letter that makes mention of their waiving my deficiency. This is NOT really an option, since I only have 6 days (before the foreclosure auction on the 15th)…and there’s no way Seterus would come back in time with a new, improved approval letter.

2) sign the approval letter and PRAY they don’t come after me and sue me blind. My lawyer seems to think it’s pretty unlikely that they’ll come after me…he gave me 80-85% odds of getting away scot-free.

STILL….that means I have 15-20% odds of Seterus suing my ass down the line, say 5 years from now (legally, they have 7 years to do so): “Oh by the way…you owe us $270,000!!!!”


After an agonizing night, I went with #2. I feel like I’ve sincerely done the best I could to extract myself from this BAD DECISION ethically and responsibly…what the fuck more can I do?! I’m just *PRAYING* they let me go without incident.

Meanwhile, the people who bought my house (for $112,00…which makes me literally sick to my stomach) are on my ass. Their Realtor called me today: “When are you going to be out?!” (The lady who’s buying the place is a real hard-ass.)

WHAT?! I *COULDN’T* move, or do anything, until the deal closed…or else my homeowner’s insurance coverage would lapse. So even though I’ve had a new place lined up for MONTHS, I couldn’t really start moving until the deal closed. WTF! Now they want me out by FRIDAY, or they’re gonna start charging me RENT!


As mentioned, I already have a new place lined up. A very generous reader of this blog offered me a house to stay in, all to myself, so that’s not a real concern. But I do have a LOT of stuff (my wig collection alone is a real monster), so it’s not like I can just vacate the premises overnight. Sheesh!

To make matters worse, I’ve had the last 3 weeks off from my camera job…but of course, the shit had to hit the fan EXACTLY when I have to go back to work 🙁 So, for the next several days, I’ll be working overtime…trying to move, and pay my bills at the same time. FUCK!

Anyway, while all that was going on, I still had to go about my business and try to earn some milk money. Thankfully, a little something called the Super Bowl came along. Let me spend the rest of this blog telling you about SAUSAGEFEST WEEKEND!

Super Bowl (or the Big Game; the NFL trademarked the name “Super Bowl” so that sinful dens of iniquity like Vegas wouldn’t be able to use it) is a BIG weekend for Las Vegas. Hordes of beefy, beery mooks from all over U.S.A. descend in droves to eat up all our wings, drink all our beer, and fondle/ogle all our busty young chicks in an orgiastic display of overindulgence and fat-assery. IT’S LAME!

But, I need to make a buck….so I always work. Let me tell you about my personal history of working the Super Bowl in Vegas.

My first Vegas Super Bowl, I was a cigarette girl at the Flamingo. I worked the 2am-10am shift, and I never made ANY money — I mean, think about it! Who the fuck is awake and gambling at the freaking FLAMINGO between 2-10am?! — except for on Super Bowl Sunday, when I miraculously made about $220. I used the cash to finally buy a television, which I did not have up to that point (bad decision, I know).

After that, I took the next few Super Bowls off. I remember being super-sick in bed during the 2005 game, when Janet Jackson’s titty was scandalously exposed by Justin Timberlake…but I was so feverishly delirious that I couldn’t even tell if it was really happening!

By 2007, I had established myself as a “promotional model,” and started working Super Bowl parties for pay. For the next 5 years I was a Bud Light girl at various Super Bowl parties around town — at the Riviera, the Tropicana, Harrah’s (I was actually a Miller Lite girl that time) and the Mirage…as well as one year, when I just roamed around to various local bars. This job basically entailed putting on a Bud Light (or Miller) shirt, and tossing beads, Koozies and keychains to hordes of testosterone-fueled, drooling mooks. Easy work…but very lame.

This year, I was hired by a friend to work as a waitress at a huge Super Bowl party sponsored by a local Italian restaurant. It was easy work — just be fun, flirt, wear Daisy Dukes and bring drunk assholes their beers — but I was a little uneasy about the pay situation. Normally, as a Bud/ Miller girl, I make about $30/hour. We generally only work until halftime, so it’s usually a 3-hour, sub-$100 gig…which sucks. But this year, the situation was even odder!

At this particular party, they had about 30 girls working, plus bartenders and bar backs. The plan was that we would all work for tips, then pool everything and split it evenly at the end of the night. I had my doubts — I am an honest person, but I know how shady chicks can be…and I just KNEW there would be one or two or ten of ’em who secretly pocketed the money, instead of sharing it.

Sure enough, I heard from a friend that there were a few chicks who were caught red-handed stealing money. Ironically, the woman in charge of the party is a Burning Man habitue who hired mostly Burning-Man-friendly waitresses…all supposedly “peace, love & understanding” types, some of whom who turned out to be thieving whores. One of them even started working drug deals with some of the football mooks at the party — apparently one guy asked if she knew where he could get some Ecstasy. WOW!

Still, the offenders were busted and the rest of us got a share of the money — which ended up being pretty good! I was really glad to have worked it, and the woman who hired me is FANTASTIC — a truly cool person, who also happens to live one block away from my new house 🙂 So it was alllllll good 🙂

Still, I’m totally glad football season is over, and the fat mooks have left town…for now. March Madness is right around the corner, and they’ll be back before I know it 🙁 Arrrgh!

Anyhoo, that’s all I have time to write about — I have to get to bed ASAP, so I can get up early and finish moving all my shit out to my new place. I spent FOUR YEARS fighting for my old house, so it’s very emotional. I’ll admit, I hugged the walls a time or two…I can’t help it; even though I’ve suffered mightily in this place, I still have a deep fondness for it.


“Radical Transparency?!”

I just read the following quote, and it infuriated me SO WILDLY that, despite suffering debilitating fatigue brought on by nine hours of Super Bowl waitressing, with only a pair of Daisy Dukes to protect me against a roomful of obnxious, beer-swilling mooks, I had to log in here to address it.

Addressing the idea of radical transparency (basically my M.O., of sharing EVERYTHING online and keeping no secrets), Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg said: “More transparency should make for a more tolerant society in which people eventually accept that everybody sometimes does bad or embarrassing things.”

SAY WHAT?!?!?!?!?!??!

Facebook does not support radical transparency. It will not allow me to be radically transparent — Lord knows I’ve tried! But for my efforts, all I’ve gotten were warnings, threats…and a permanently deleted profile.

I signed up on Facebook in 2006, but didn’t get into it til around ’09, when it really started taking off. I was all over it that year, posting all kinds of crazy photos, stories and updates — keeping my friends and family amused, and making many new friends in the process.

Then I got a warning that I had posted some “inappropriate content” that violated their user agreement, and that they had gone ahead and removed the offending material, which was these photos:






Now, Facebook wasn’t so kind as to TELL me what they’d deleted…I had to go thru my albums and figure out what was missing. And when I realized it, I was pissed! FOR REALS, FACEBOOK?! I took pains to edit out the “bad” parts in the first pic, and in the second one you can barely see anything anyway! Besides that, I think I actually edited the second one too, and put a dot over my nip or something.

In the warning message, Facebook warned me to go through my profile and remove any more objectionable material, or else they would delete my profile. So I went through and sanitized it…or so I thought.  Apparently, I neglected to remove THIS vilely offensive photo:

And because I left it up, my profile was permanently deleted. Seriously?!

I emailed Facebook, asking them to puh-leeeeeeeease reinstate my profile, explaining that I’d removed everything even remotely construable as offensive, and that they were welcome to go through it and sanitize it themselves…but all I got was a terse reply (hey, at least they answered me) stating that they were sorry, but their decision was final. D’OH!!!!!

What a PAIN IN THE ASS — now I had to go back on, create a new profile, using a different email address (they only allow one account per email address, ever), and had to painstakingly re-add all my 500 0r so friends…the ones I remembered, anyway. Then I had to re-upload hundreds of photos, many of which I’d since lost (and thus lost forever), and re-write all my witty captions and commentary underneath them….BLAH!

Was it worth it? YES!!!!!!! I *love* Facebook; using it has led me to so many new friends, lovers, and relatives I hardly knew I had. I just think it’s great. I don’t care if they sell my info to advertisers…it’s worth it to me, to have the massive convenience that it offers. A status update like  “Anyone have a lug wrench I can borrow?” is guaranteed to get answers and help — although mine are usually more along the lines of “I need a chain-smoking midget for a fetish shoot tonight!! Please contact me ASAP if interested!”

Because I love Facebook so much, nowadays I am extremely careful not to post objectionable content. Even still, I get smacked every once in awhile — I got another warning email once around Xmas 2010 that some more “inappropriate material” had been removed from my page. What was it this time?!

<—THIS!!! LOLZ! Really, Facebook? Or should I say Taliban?! Since when is a bikini inappropriate content, you closeted, miserable uptight ass burgers (I mean Asperger’s)?!?!?!?!?!

I should have called the ACLU on this one, but I pussed out and meekly accepted my punishment. But a simmering resentment remains…which is why I cackled so gleefully a couple months ago, when those awesome hackers spammed Facebook with all that awful porn. I LOVED IT! “You fuckers don’t even know what inappropriate material is! Check this out!”

Anyhooz, nowadays I have adopted a verrrrrry conservative approach to Facebook. I pussyfoot around, so as not to offend the delicate sensibilities of some random Jebus-blowing granny in Assburg, Iowa…and it’s a fucking farce! That’s not the real me — and it’s certainly not “radical transparency.”

I have a private profile! Random grannies aren’t even gonna be able to see my freaking page! I should be allowed to be MYSELF on my own, private page.

Besides, both my grandmas, plus all my aunts, uncles, cousins, brother, sisters and my own dear Mother are my Facebook friends. THEY don’t appear to be offended — so what the fuck?!

This pisses me off so much that I once got in my car and drove 600 miles to Palo Alto, just to flash my poontang at Mark Zuckerberg. It was probably the first poontang he ever saw, come to think of it! Anyway, it didn’t help change anything, but…it made me feel better 🙂

Anyway, the point of this whole rant is: radical transparency IS the awesome future! I often drone on and on about how if no one kept secrets, the world would be a better place. And I’m not just trying to justify my perverse obsession with TMI — I really believe it. So, Mark Zuckerberg, if you’re reading this, you should change your policy. That would be truly radical!!!

I’ve Tried Logic, Reason and Elbow Grease, to No Avail

I am fucked. Fucked. FUCKED!

If you’ve been reading this tripe for any length of time, you’ll know that the past 3 years of my life have been consumed with my effort to work out a mortgage deal with my lender. I simply cannot afford my $2300 monthly payments, and I’m tired of sucking dick just trying to make ends meet.

According to the media, there are tons of government aid programs out there to help idiots like me. Over the last 3 years, I HAVE TRIED THEM ALL.


The simple truth is, the banks DON’T WANT TO HELP PEOPLE! They make more money in government bailouts by foreclosing, than by actually working with home”owners,” so they have zero incentive.

Like a total fucking patsy, I followed the carrot they dangled in front of me for the last three years: “If you just fax us this, that and the other, we’ll give you a loan modification!” I faxed, scanned, emailed and called for YEARS, and spent countless hours (and thousands of dollars I could ill afford), bawling in frustration and banging my head against the wall. I never gave up, though, because I though it was a war of attrition that could ultimately be won by the strongest man (me, dammit).

In Nevada, the State mandates that lenders meet with troubled homeowners for a “mediation hearing.” I went to such a hearing with a representative from my lender — which, to my surprise, isn’t Chase after all. It’s something/somebody called Seterus, Inc.

I got my fucking mortgage from Washington Mutual. Chase bought them out, but then sold all their bum loans to LBPS (Lender Business Process Servers)…who in turn sold the loans to Seterus, Inc. So my loan has changed hands so many times, I bet they don’t even have the original documents.

I (stupidly) didn’t challenge them on that at my mediation hearing, because I’m tired of dragging this out. I’m finished with stalling tactics — I WANT RESOLUTION! IF ONE MORE PERSON SENDS ME AN EMAIL TELLING ME ABOUT HOW THEIR “FRIENDS LIVED FOR FREE WITHOUT PAYING A DIME FOR YEARS,” I’m gonna SCREAM!!!!!


I missed about 12 payments back in 2009/10 (just to get their attention; they wouldn’t answer my calls for the 12 preceding months, when I was still scrounging around sucking dick to make the payments. I got tired of sucking dick, the money dried up, and NOW those fuckers answered me. They gave me a trial loan modification, which if I made 4 payments on time, they would make it permanent.

Yes! Awesome!

SIKE! I made my four payments ON TIME, but they dragged ass for TWELVE MONTHS with no answer. In the meantime, I kept paying to show “good faith…” but apparently, it was a stupid fucking move to make, because all those “trial” payments weren’t enough for Chase/Seterus/WhoeverTheFuck…and EACH and EVERY SINGLE $1200 payment I made counted for NOTHING. Because they were modified to $1200 (instead of my original $2300), EACH PAYMENT COUNTED AS A DEFAULTED PAYMENT!

Because of this, by the time I got my mediation hearing, I was already pretty far along in the foreclosure process (much to my surprise — I’d been paying TWELVE HUNDRED DOLLARS A MONTH TO THESE BLOODSUCKING ASSHOLES! Didn’t feel like I was defaulting, to me!). At my mediation, I offered to just give them the house back in exchange for being released from my debt (what’s called a Deed in Lieu of Foreclosure). My lender’s representative said Sorry, we don’t take Deeds in Lieu.

OK, so will you at least write down my principal to the fair market value? I bought the house for $380,000 and have only paid down $111 in principal — out of $125,000 in payments!!!!!!!!! And now it’s only worth $100,000.

No. “I’m sorry, we don’t write down principals.”

FUCK! So what do you WANT me to do?!?!

My choices were to a) let ’em foreclose, or b) short sell the house (get whatever money  I can for it, and hope my lender accepts that instead of the full amount I owe them).

I was crying so hard I couldn’t decide what to do, so the fucking bitch representative from my lender marked it down as “client will foreclose.” BUT I NEVER SAID I WANTED TO FORECLOSE! I DIDN’T DECIDE YET!!!!!!

I ended up discussing with my attorney, and deciding to short sell. I had to hire ANOTHER attorney (more fucking money I don’t have), and this asshole warned me that because I was already so far along into the foreclosure process, he might not be able to push my short sale thru in time. He told me up front that it was a gamble — but I’d have to pay his retainer either way.

What the fuck would you do? I paid his fucking blood money, listed the property, and BUSTED MY ASS to sell it as fast as fucking possible. It was listed on a Wednesday, and by Monday I had EIGHT OFFERS. I submitted the best one — a CASH OFFER, WELL ABOVE the bank’s appraisal of $105,000 — during the last week of November.

I still haven’t heard back. I assumed my offer was sitting in a stack of papers on some asshole’s desk over at Seterus, waiting for him to get to it.


Right after I posted my last blog, I went outside to run some errands, and found an auction notice posted on my door!


I’m not dumb — I know they get more bailout money from the fucking Feds if I foreclose, so it’s better off for them NOT to approve my short sale.

But it’s going to FUCK ME OVER.

If my house goes to auction, they can sell it out from under me (fine, whatever)…but then they can came after me and SUE ME BLIND for the $380,000 I owe them! My only recourse is to completely fuck my finances and credit by filing bankruptcy…which I don’t want to do, obviously.


What’s frustrating is, I can’t do a GODDAMN THING ABOUT IT. I tried going to the Chase Homeownership Crisis Center, but this really smarmy young prick told me “We don’t own your loan anymore, nothing we can do.” He was a real asshole about it, too. FUCK YOU! I bawled my eyes out all the way down the hall to my car, not caring who the fuck saw me.

There has to be SOMEONE I can tell about this who can help me! My attorney says they are doing “everything they can” on their end, but to be honest I don’t want to rely on that. He already got his retainer; what the fuck does he care? The first fucking thing he said to me was “I told you this might happen!” just to cover his ass. Fuck you! Thanks for your support, asshole.

I figured there had to be SOMETHING I could do on my end, to make sure the auction is stopped before they have a chance to approve the short sale. I tried calling all those fake-ass “HOPE for Homeowner” hotlines the dumbass pussywhipped government set up…but they were WORSE than useless. One lady had no answers for me, the other said she couldn’t legally advise me because I already have counsel retained. NO ONE WANTS TO HELP.

Basically, my lawyer says I just have to sit around and wait until the auction date — which is right around the corner; Feb. 15th. *HOPEFULLY* they’ll halt the auction once they realize they have a better offer sitting on their desk, or even better just go ahead and approve the fucking short sale RIGHT NOW. But if they don’t….




If my house goes to the auction, I swear I am rounding up all my dirtiest, smelliest hippie friends from the #OccupyLasVegas encampment, and bringing them all to the auction with me: “HEY YOU FUCKERS! GO AHEAD AND BID ON THE MOUNTAIN VIEW PROPERTY — BUT IF YOU GET IT, YOU’RE GONNA HAVE TO DEAL WITH 500 HIPPIES CAMPING IN THE YARD! YOU’LL HAVE TO EVICT 500 PEOPLE…GOOOOOOOD LUCK WITH THAT, ASSHOLES!”

Yeah, I’m fucking pissed!

I’ve done everything I was supposed to for the last three years. I played by the rules, filed countless papers and faxed, scanned, emailed and called every time they said they needed updated stuff. And they’re still giving me a giant middle finger.


I have zero power, and it’s extremely demoralizing.

All I really did this past week was sob. I am TERRIFIED. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’VE DONE ALL I CAN! And it wasn’t enough.

Since logic and reason have failed thus far, I turned to the occult. I went to Bell, Book & Candle (Ye Olde Magick Shoppe, on East Charleston in Vegas) and bought a Jinx-breaker candle to break my string of bad luck. Nevermind the fact that I don’t believe in magic; I’m desperate! The big fat barefoot bearded wizard in there shuffled over to his shelf of herbs, sprinkled a bunch of happy oils and glitter on a jar candle, and charged me $8. I hope it works! He threw in a couple of magic beans for good luck…which if I’m REALLY lucky, will grow into a beanstalk leading up to Seterus’s offices, so I can climb up and finally find the RIGHT dick to suck.

THEN, in case the Goddess wasn’t listening, I went over to the other side of town and bought a little statue of Saint Joseph from a Christian bookstore (I thought I’d burst into flames walking in the door, when I heard the “Praise Him” music and saw the moon-faced Christer heifer behind the counter smile beatifically at me). Someone had told me that if you want to sell a house, you’re supposed to bury a statue of St. Joseph in the front yard, upside down facing the house out near the street. Nevermind the fact that I don’t believe in religion; I’m desperate! I went inside, for good measure, and donned my lucky Big Girl Panties, my favorite psychedelic caftan (the one I wore to my dad’s funeral last year) and my lucky pink cowgirl hat. Basically, it was everything I had that was meaningful to me…so I wore it like armor, brought my jinx-breaking candle out to the front yard, and buried St. Joseph in amongst the lantana in my front garden.


I spent last night weeping in my truck in an empty parking lot, screaming in rage, beating on my windows, biting my steering wheel in sheer frustration. WHAT MORE CAN I DO??????

What really pisses me off is, it’s basically my own fault that I “waited too long” to decide to short sell. Remember, by the time I listed my house I was “so far along in the foreclosure process” that my lawyer couldn’t promise anything.


Is that really MY fuckin’ fault?!?!?!?!?!? I WAS TRYING TO DO RIGHT! AND NOW I’M GETTING FUCKED!

I just can’t believe there is NO ONE IN THIS ENTIRE WORLD who can/will help me. NO ONE.



I’m utterly alone. WHERE ARE YOU, PRESIDENT OBAMA? Oh yeah that’s right, you’re busy sucking bank cock. They probably need another $8billion bailout.


I ACTUALLY VOTED FOR YOUR DUMB ASS! I bet none of those fat cats did. So, don’t you owe me ANYTHING?!?!?!?!?

FORCE THE BANKS TO WORK WITH PEOPLE! It’s the only way our economy will recover. No one’s gonna feel like spending money until their mortgages are refinanced so that their homes are no longer 300% underwater.



I swear, I never felt so hopeless as I did last night, bawling my eyes out in that supermarket parking lot. I actually wanted to be dead…which I feel awful saying, because my dad committed suicide last April and my family’s still pretty tore up about it. But it was  how I felt — I honestly didn’t even want to be alive anymore. I’m too tired!

This process has drained out all my enjoyment of life. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, all I can do is cry and worry and drink myself into a stupor every night just so I can doze off for a few hours, then get up and do it all over again. MY LIFE IS NO FUN ANYMORE.

Thank Dog, my camera job boss was cool and let me take a couple weeks off. (There’s no show anyway, but sometimes they make me go to other hotels and work lesser shows just because they can.) So I had plenty of time to sit around and weep.

I swear, my friends are probably sick to death of me and my whining. All I do is cry and stay home…people probably think I’m making it up, but I REALLY JUST DON’T FEEL LIKE PARTYING! The other day I went out and met a reader of this blog for drinks, and started crying all over the restaurant in front of him. It was *very* awkward. I got the fuck out of there as quick as I could, so I could go home and cry in private. I didn’t wanna cry TOO much, though, because I had a foot fetish photo shoot with the next day, and I didn’t want puffy, wrinkly eyes. But that shoot ended up cancelling anyway!!!! I got up the next morning, tried to de-puff my eyes with ice packs and

Preparation H (which really works, by the way), and then somehow drew makeup on around them……ALL FOR NOTHING. AFTER I already did all this, they guy calls and tells me sorry, the shoot is cancelled.


I **NEEDED** that money!

Oh well, I did a few other gigs this week (somehow, in between all the sobbing) so I’ll be OK. I did a photo shoot out at the J.W. Marriott in Summerlin, where the photographer wanted me to dress in a sexy Tomb Raider outfit. I put together a Tomb Raider ensemble out of odds-n-ends from my wardrobe, and it looked awesome…but asked me to take the pants off, anyway, as he was more interested in shooting up my crack into my vagina! He actually laid on the bed and had me straddle him, while he shot up my crack. I thought it would be all shadowy and artsy, but when he showed me the back of the camera, it was gross. All stubbly labia, way too clinical for my taste. To his credit, when I expressed dismay he vowed to darken the shadows and not publish them anywhere. But it was still kinda humiliating. (Although I don’t know why — I’m fine with my labia, and I shouldn’t really care if he photographs them or my knees or my shoulders. They’re all body parts, after all!)

When I got out of there, I went straight home to bed, to engage in my nightly ritual: medical marijuana, wine, and Words With Friends. That’s right people, my life has come to that. It’s all I do for fun anymore. LITERALLY.

Because of my insane stress levels, I had to go get more “medicine” at the dispensary (a dispensary is what they call the legal place for marijuana patients to get their “medicine.”) At one time, there were upwards of 70 dispensaries in town…but the stupid fucking Feds shut them all down for technicalities — see, according to the law, dispensaries are “nonprofit organizations” that are supposed to help medical marijuana patients for free. HAH! All the ones I’ve been to are complete and total FARCES. The staff is a bunch of dumb cocky stoners, and all they try to do is sell you the most expensive “top shelf” medicine — only they’re not allowed to say “sell” or “buy,” because it’s a NONPROFIT. So they’re very careful to say “donate” instead of “buy,” as in, “How much of a donation were you looking to make?” STUPID!

The place I go to now is one of the last ones left in town, and they’re VERY low profile. They don’t advertise anywhere, and there’s not even a sign on their door. I only found out about them thanks to a fellow medical marijuana patient and friend who is a celebrity impersonator at a local Strip hotel, and he brought me over and sort of “vouched” for me as a new patient. Even then, I had to wait two weeks for them to vet my application and approve me as a patient…but now I’m in, and can go “donate” for meds any time I want.

At first, I was totally impressed with this place because of its low profile — as mentioned, “other” dispensaries I’d been to were staffed by cocky stoners, but this place seemed legit. WRONG! I went in the other day, and the two guys in the back were high as kites…acting like IDIOTS. Come on, guys…can’t we be PROFESSIONAL for once in our lives?! They tried to “donate” me all kinds of super-expensive top-shelf crap, which I refused (I like ditchweed just fine, thanks)…but thank Dog they have these specials, like at Payless Shoes — only instead of BOGO (Buy One, Get One Free), they have DOGO (Donate One, Get One Free) (REALLY??!!). TOTALLY STUPID, but the product was OK. If you’re wondering, the “recommended donation” was $65 per 1/8th of an ounce…but since it was DOGO, I got a quarter for $65. Still pricey! I need to learn to grow my own, already.

Now, I am a TEXTBOOK MEDICAL MARIJUANA PATIENT, and I only use my medicine in bed, when I’m trying to sleep (can you blame me for having insomnia, at this point?!). But the rest of the day, when I’m driving around taking care of business (or trying to, anyway), I can’t be high. So I turn to my #2 pal, AlkyHol, which comes thru in a pinch. Alas, I got a DUI in 2010, and some asshole robbed my Breathalyzer from my truck the other week, so I can’t even really numb myself with THAT anymore 🙁

Still, one afternoon I was SO upset that I just couldn’t take it, and drove to the nearest grocery store to get a drink and some food. Unfortunately, it was one of those lame grocery stores that only sells beer & wine — I hate beer, and I don’t like drinking wine in the afternoon, so I was reduced to buying wine coolers and packaged sushi from the deli. HEARTBREAKING! I sat in my truck, crying and drinking this awful Bartles & Jaymes “margarita” and eating shitty Albertson’s sushi. It was a low point in my life…but I’m sure not the nadir. That’s yet to come, I’m sure.

Speaking of my truck, I’ve actually been spending a lot of time hanging out in there lately because I own it and no one is going to foreclose on it or take it away. I feel sort of safe there, which I don’t at home, since people are always driving past, checking out my house to see if they should bid on it at the auction. It’s like vultures circling my poor pathetic carcass! But ever since that fucking asshole broke into my truck the other week and stole all my stuff, I don’t feel safe there, either 🙁

Well, that’s about all. Now it’s time for me to eat a cookie, drink some wine and go to bed and play Words With Friends. In the morning, I’ll get up and face it alllll again. But with any luck…


🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂 🙂

P.S. One more thing to add: I was out in suburbia shooting fetish videos, when I stopped at Albertson’s (grocery store) for a snack. I don’t have one of those discount cards they try and give you, so they can track your purchases while giving you two cents off this and that, but I remembered this cool trick I read on LifeHack or some place: if you don’t have a club card for a particular store, just give them your phone number. But not your REAL number, because if you don’t have a card, it won’t do you any good anyway. Give them the FAKE number “867-5309,” from the ’80s song “Jenny,” by Tommy Tutone. GUARANTEED someone will already have used it, so it’s in the system and you can use it to get the discount. I’m here to tell you — IT WORKS! Just add on whatever the local area code is, and you’re golden. Try it — you’ll see 🙂